


a strangers eyes that somehow look familiar.

by sailorshadzter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Creepy Petyr Baelish, Endgame Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Wildling Jon Snow, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorshadzter/pseuds/sailorshadzter
Summary: Jon Snow is dreaming.Dreaming of a maiden with ivory skin and fire kissed hair; with eyes so blue they could rival that of any sea, of any sky.So why is it when he meets Alayne Stone, the dark haired and beautiful bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, he's instantly captivated? It’s as if he's meeting someone he's known all his life and Jon can’t help but to fall in love.But the dreams.... The dreams do not stop.The maiden in his dreams continues to call out to him, her voice like honey, so soft and smooth. Despite his ever growing feelings for Alayne, he can't forget the other.When Alayne's true identity is revealed, everything in Jon's life changes and suddenly, he is thrust into a world where the only thing that matters to him is her. He will go to any length to ensure the safety of the one he loves.I’ll protect you, I promise.>> in otherwords, a wildling jon x sansa au
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ao3 wont let me update the stats, but this is ONGOING. :)

_The air smells of blue winter roses._

_He's standing at the edge of a garden, but the garden is cold and frozen, a wasteland of ice and snow. And yet... His footsteps proprel him forward, towards its center where surely a fountain once stood, but is nothing now. Something there is calling out to him, a voice, soft... So soft... "Jon..." It's his name in a voice that is sweeter than honey, a voice he longs to hear speak again. "Jon..."_

_There she is._

_She stands illuminated by the moonlight, the pale light threading through her auburn hair like ribbons. His finger twitches, he wants to touch it, he wants to feel it against his skin. As if attuned to his presence, she's turning, and that's when Jon sees the crown of blue roses held in her hand._

_Somewhere, a wolf howls, long and lonely._

_Rosy lips curve with the syllable of his name, blue eyes radiant in the glimmer of moonlight. She's there, just out of his reach as he extends out his arm, fingers grasping at the expanse of air between them. "Find me, please..." She whispers and that's when he notices the tears that gather upon her lashes. He's so close now, he can almost brush the tears from her skin, but just before he can..._

He's awake.

Jon sighs, sitting up from the furs on his bed, rubbing his eyes as somewhere in the distance, the morning call sounds. The air is biting cold as he slides out from the heavy blankets, so he tugs on his discarded clothes, his cloak which was draped over the chair nearest the hearth swung on as he stuffs his feet back into his boots. 

It was that dream again.

Not that he's surprised, of course, for it comes and goes so often he sometimes feels strange when he does not have it. He only wishes he knew... Again he sighs, thinking of the beautiful redheaded woman of the dream, who's face he's come to know as well as his own. She's been calling out to him all these years and Jon only wishes he could find her. Somehow, despite it being just a dream, Jon knows she's real. He knows she's out there waiting for him.

"Your grace," he's joined as he stalks from his tent by Tormund, rolling his eyes at the man's greeting. Despite his title as king, Jon does not expect his men to treat him any differently than they once had, though most respect their young king enough that they cannot help but to address him differently. "A raven arrived for you." Tormund hands the letter over to him as they approached the center of their campsite. 

Together they step inside the main tent, where across a long table is a map of the North, chairs haphazardly placed around the space. Jon sinks into one and turns the letter over, the sight of the seal on the back surprising him. "From the Eyrie," Jon comments before breaking said seal, opening the folded up parchment so he can read what words have been written inside. "It would seem we've been invited to the Vale," he says after a moment, glancing up to meet Tormund's clear blue eyes. "The young lord is to be married." 

"Oh, what will I wear?" Tormund scoffs, his turn to roll his eyes as another man steps inside the tent. "You hear that Edd, we've been invited to a young lord's wedding." Edd, a Knight's Watch man, chuckles, thinking it to be a joke at first. When he realizes Tormund is not jesting, he turns a blank stare at his king, who tosses the letter atop the table. 

"What for?" Edd asks as he takes the seat across from Jon, glancing from him to Tormund. It had been nearly two years since the Night's Watch man (and several others) joined his ranks among the Free Folk and Edd had quickly become one of Jon's closest companions. Back then, Jon had met with the Night's Watch in hopes of rebuilding a bond between the North and the wildlings, but their leader, Alliser Thorne, had no intention of peace with the Free Folk. "I don't see what a noble wants with us." That was true. It was not often, if ever, that the Free Folk or their king met with any of the Westeros nobility. 

"I've heard that Lord Baelish is a dangerous man," he gestures at the letter, indicating the man he spoke of was the author, before continuing. "A ruthless, stop at nothing to get what he wants, sort of man." Jon can't think of a reason why this Petyr Baelish would invite him and his men to his ward's wedding, but he is smart enough to know there must be an underlying reason. 

"Then let's find out what he wants." Tormund grins, really not able to pass up a chance to fuck around with the nobility. And their women. 

Jon glances from both men, his two most trusted of comrades, the two men always at his side... And then he nods. 

[ x x x ]

Her quiet life has become anything but quiet. 

The Vale has become a swarm of activity, what with the sudden decision to marry young Sweetrobin to the wealthy Manderly girl, who's father was Warden of White Harbor. She might only be a stupid girl, but she's already begun to understand the motives behind Lord Baelish's decision, she's lived with him long enough now to see through his false smiles and spoken truths. Really, when she thinks about it, she's not certain anything he's ever said has been true.

"Alayne?"

That's my name now, she reminds herself, turning to face the man that has approached her on the stairs. She's been standing at the window there on the landing, overlooking the courtyard that is a frenzy of activity even now, so late into the afternoon. It's Lord Baelish standing there with his sickening smile, his eyes looking her over before resting upon her face. "I have been looking for you, sweetheart." He gestures for her to follow after him and so she does, climbing up the next flight of stairs that lead towards the corridor where her own rooms sit. "I have something for you," he goes on as they step through the door and into her chamber, where sure enough at the center of the room stands several things that had not been there earlier that morning.

It was, to her her delight, several bolts of fabric; one in a beautiful slate gray, another in the softest rose. One in yellow and two in shades of blue. There was even one in a shimmering white. The last was black and even from there, she could tell it was of the highest quality. She turns a wide eyed stare towards Baelish who only smiles, gesturing for her to approach the fabric. "I thought you might like to make a new dress for the wedding," his voice is as soft as the silk she fingers, knelt down on the floor among the fabric. "There will be plenty of options for you," she know he's smiling before she turns back around to face him. "I have invited the most eligible of Northern bachelors to this wedding. All for you." 

Now, she's understanding even more. 

She's known all along that Littlefinger has not rescued her for her own benefit- no, even she wasn't that ignorant. No... She knows what Baelish wants. He wants her name, he wants her home, he wants the North. Though she lives as Alayne now, someday, she will reclaim what was hers, including her name. The ghost of the girl she left behind in King's Landing, she would come back as whole again someday. "Who have you already chosen?" She can play this game, too. 

Baelish smirks; this slip of a girl proves yet again, she is much smarter than he ever took her to be. "Ramsay Bolton, naturally." He answers as she turns back the fabrics, her fingers delicately tracing the detailing of the shimmery white velvet. "He already sits in Winterfell, give him a son and your place is secure once more." That is the easy option and the one that suits him best. He would accept a handsome payment from the Bolton's for her and when the time was right... The bastard born Ramsay would die, leaving Winterfell in her hands once again. Then... It would be his turn in her marriage bed. When the North was his... Well, the rest of his plan came later, when this first stage was completed. "But, there is always the other option..." He trails off, shaking his head, as if he does not mean to continue.

"Which is...?" She's back on her feet, holding steady to his gaze.

He doesn't like this option as much, but it certainly could be fun. And in the end, Petyr knows his limits. "The King-Beyond-the-Wall," he says as if this is answer enough. "He is a man by the name of Jon Snow, the man who wants to unite the wildlings with the North." A bastard born in the heart of the North, not much is known about Jon Snow aside from his renowned sword skills in the heart of the battlefield. Though, there was one thing that Petyr knows about the man, something he thinks many in the world would care to know. 

The truth.

"The king of the wildlings?" She asks, blinking in surprise. "What could a marriage with him possibly provide me?" She has heard the rumors of the Free Folk, wild men with a violent appetite, more beast than man, some even might say. 

"A man with an army five thousand strong, he could storm the walls of Winterfell and reclaim what is yours without fail." He replies, barely able to contain his delight as he watches recognition spread across her face. Perhaps a war for Winterfell would be more fun than he thought. "A man in love will do anything," he goes on, taking a step closer to where she stands. "A beautiful woman is powerful, but a loved woman? It is incomparable." Baelish shakes his head, smirking slightly. "Earn a man's love, Alayne, and he will ride into war or even hellfire to win you back your birthright." 

It could be hers again, not her husband's. And if truly, somewhere out there, Arya and Bran and Rickon lived... Then it could be theirs again as well. They could be a family, a pack. No more lies, no more hiding. She could shed the name Alayne and step back into the name she's always known. 

"Thank you... for the fabric," she says with a small smile of her own. 

She can play this game, too.

[ x x x ]

It takes a fortnight for Jon and his small party to make their way from the deep Northern forest, just inside the wall, to where the Bloody Gate stands. There they were greeted with a guide that led them up the steep pass along the high road, up until they climb the stairs that lead up to the double doors of the Eyrie. 

The castle is formidable, so high in the mountains and with tough terrain surrounding it, there was a reason it was considering impregnable to attack. Jon has never seen such a place and he must pause, if only for a moment, to take in the sight of it. 

As they step inside the doors, they are met with a small group; a young boy stands at the forefront, well dressed in finery of blue. He cannot be more than fourteen, though his is scrawny, sickly almost, and Jon knows this must be the young lord, Robin Arryn, who's wedding he is there to attend. "Your grace, welcome to the Eyrie," it is not the boy who speaks, but rather, a slim, older man that stands at his shoulder. "I am Lord Baelish," he bows, more in greeting than from respect, but Jon inclines his head all the same. "This is Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, my ward." He gestures towards the boy who has already sulked off towards an older woman Jon assumes is his governess. "And this is my daughter, Alayne." He turns this time towards a young woman that has appeared at his side.

Just like that, Jon's world ceases to spin.

He's stuck in the moment of their eyes first meeting; he's seen those eyes before. Those beautiful blue eyes, like the color of the sky just before a summer rain. Eyes he's dreamed of countless times before. Jon sweeps his gaze across her features- familiar, but the hair... It is not the fire kissed hair he's seen in his dreams, but rather hair like the blackest of coals, a stark contrast to the soft ivory of her skin. "Your grace," she dimples prettily when she smiles, offering him a curtsy as she approaches where he stands. "It is a pleasure to meet you," her voice is soft and slow, a voice he would like to hear more of. 

"The pleasure is mine," he replies a moment later, finally finding his voice. His world is slowly beginning to spin again. He cannot get over the striking similarities between this young woman and the one he's been dreaming of. If not for the hair, he would have thought this to be her... But all the same... Jon cannot help but to feel a pull towards her. Though Lord Baelish engages him with conversation, offering him further into the palace, he cannot help but to be thinking about her. He cannot help but to steal glances at her, sometimes surprised to find she's already looking at him. 

When they part ways and Jon is shown to the rooms that will be his during their stay, he sinks onto the soft bed, already again consumed with thoughts of the young woman. Alayne, he thinks, wondering why it felt as if such a name did not suit her. She had disappeared after supper, Baelish explaining that she was working on a gown for the upcoming wedding, and had not returned down before the rest of the palace retired. He had hoped to see her again, even for a moment. 

[ x x x ]

In her own rooms, she's pacing.

"I don't understand." She's murmuring, shaking her head, her hair swinging with every sharp turn she makes. 

"My lady..." It's Shae, her ever loyal companion, brought with her from King's Landing thanks to Baelish. If she could thank him for anything he's ever done for her, it would be saving Shae. "What is it?" The young woman turns and focuses her eyes upon her, the blue gaze penetrating, eyes that had seen more than any person ever should. As always, her heart aches for her lady, for the girl she's grown to love more than anyone in the world. 

"Jon Snow..." Alayne trails off, sinking onto the edge of her bed, hands clutching to the folds of her white nightgown. "He looks like my father." He was most certainly Stark born, she would know those eyes anywhere. They were her father's eyes, they were Arya's eyes. "He has Stark blood." She whispers, a strange feeling welling up within her. In truth, the moment their eyes had met, she had felt the fire beginning it's burn. It was warm and it was gentle, filling her up with something like comfort, something she might even call safety. She can't remember the last time she felt something like that. 

And she wants to feel it again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Alayne get to know each other a little better. 
> 
> (i'm terrible @ summaries, dont expect much LOL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's note: creepy baelish in this chapter, just a warning.

In the morning when he wakes, Jon is already is thinking of her.

He dresses in the quiet darkness of the room, the morning sounding as he slips out into the hall. The palace is silent, but the torches along the halls have already been lit, casting the narrow corridors with eerie shadows. Though he doesn't know his way around the confusion halls of the Eyrie, somehow his feet find their way down to the main hall, where only the day before he had met Lord Baelish and the others. Where he had met _her._

Jon supposes it's crazy, these feelings rising up within him, but there was no denying the pull he felt towards her. It was like catching a glimpse of a future he's yet to come to know. There was a little voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was what was right, that whatever he felt in his heart was true.

When Jon finds her, she's a lone figure in the small, secluded courtyard that must have once been full of lavish greenery. Instead, it's frozen over with the rain that fell overnight, a misty haze hanging in the morning air. For a moment, he's reminded of his dream again, wondering to himself how strange it would be to see her with blue roses in her hands. But, of course, that would be impossible. And yet... When he looks at her from this distance, it's as if she is the maiden from his dreams, hair color wrong or not, he feels as if he knows this Alayne, deep in his heart.

It is a cold morning but he finds she's draped in nothing more than a light gray cloak, the hood hanging down her back to reveal that dark head of hair. She walks along a path that is nearest the line of trees that lead down to the godswood, as if she lingers between where she stands and heading down. There is a sadness that clings to her, Jon realizes, a sadness he had not noticed in their first interaction. He thinks perhaps she has come out all this way for a moment on her own and he turns, as if he means to go, but that's when she turns towards him instead.

For a moment, time is suspended.

She can't be certain how long they stare at one another, but it feels like an eternity. It doesn't make any sense, but she feels that electric pull once again, a strange need to bring herself closer to where he stands. And so she does.

"Your grace," she greets, dipping him a quick curtsy. "Having a look around, are you?" Her smile is quick and Jon is momentarily speechless by the sight of it. "I could show you... If you'd like." Her ivory cheeks are twin blooms of color and it brings a new sort of beauty to her face.

"I would like that," he says, finally finding his voice. Together they fall into place, walking along the treeline where she had previously been standing. "Have you lived here all your life?" Jon finds himself asking after a moment, hyper aware of the slight brushing of their shoulders as she shifts towards him. "Your father said he has a small residence further south." To his surprise, something like darkness passes across her features and then he sees it again- that sadness from before.

"I haven't," she says after a moment more, her smile suddenly returning, like a mask sliding into place, leaving Jon to wonder if he's only imagining things. "I have been south most of my life." She's surprised at how easy the lie has become, how natural. Once, her siblings had teased her for her inability to lie, now she's certain she can lie better than anyone. "I've only come to live here recently." It's been something like six months since that day when she was ferried away from King's Landing. A long, six months.

They walk along the length of the yard and back around the other side, approaching a stone bench that she says was once surrounded by bushes full of pale pink blooms. Jon gestures for her to take a seat and she does, settled into her place when Jon sits down beside her. "You know, in truth I was surprised when your father introduced you," he speaks honestly. "Living so far up North, we don't hear everything, but of all the things I've heard of your father, marriage and children were never one of them."

If it were not for her strict training, she might have flinched at the mention of her father. But this lie is well practiced as well, perhaps the most practiced of them all since her arrival in the Vale. Just how many times has she had to tell this story? To every lord and lady she's encountered, questioning her on her birth and where she's been up until now. Though inside she screams she's another's daughter, on the outside she must smile and spread the lie of who she is. "I'm a bastard, you see," she says softly, lowering her gaze as if she's shamed by the words. Jon opens his mouth to stammer an apology but she's all smiles again, shaking her head. "How were you to know? Besides, he's hoping to have me legitimatized. He knows the king well, you know... King Tommen, that is." She thinks of that poor, fair haired boy king, left to fill the shoes of his older brother, a boy that would certainly never grow to be a man. She feels a twinge of sorrow for that boy, and the dead princess too, the only innocent ones.

Jon has heard of this before, thinking about how only weeks ago the man who now occupies Winterfell had his bastard legitimatized. He's heard more than just that about that son, like Baelish, he's heard the rumors about Ramsay Bolton even all the way up in the North. "For your benefit, I hope it happens." Jon may be ignorant to all the customs of the world she lives in, but he knows a true born child, daughter or not, would have a much more promising life than a bastard. Has he not himself been cursed at and called bastard? The smile Alayne offers him is small, almost forced, and yet again Jon is wondering about the inner workings of her mind. She is like the most practiced of courtiers, taught to always save face, no matter how you felt inside; he wonders what is beneath the mask she seems to wear.

"Even if it doesn't, I'll be alright." Jon looks up when she speaks and sees she's staring up into the sky, her head tilted back, dark hair a waterfall across her shoulders. She's framed so beautifully in the morning sunlight that for a single moment, Jon is mesmerized. He's never been so entranced by a woman, feeling more like she's woven a spell upon him with just a single glance. "Besides, are you not proof that being a bastard means little to a person's future?" She thinks of Joffrey, of his siblings, all secret bastards. "In the end, is being a bastard truly that terrible?"

He holds her gaze for several long moments, thinking about the words that she's just spoken. _Is being a bastard truly that terrible?_ Is it? All his life, Jon has wished for a family of his own. As a child, he wished for a mother and a father to love him, perhaps even a brother to fight with. Now, deep down, he wishes to hold a son and kiss a wife. I will father no bastards, he once promised himself, for he hated growing up with the stigma. He's always felt that was the first thing someone noticed of him, that it was something that defined him. But as he looks at this young woman who smiles upon him... Suddenly he's realizing that perhaps she is right.

If only he'd heard such a thing years ago.

"The morning meal should begin soon," Alayne's voice drifts in, bringing him back to the present, and he smiles his apology. He nods and rises up to his feet, offering his hand to help her up. The moment her hand is in his, Jon can feel it, the flicker of energy as skin meets skin. Her eyes widen slightly and he wonders if she can feel it as well. She's on her feet then and when he lets go, his hand feels cold, empty, without hers in it. "This afternoon... I can show you more, if you would like."

Jon grins, nodding. "I have heard of the..." He lowers his voice, glancing around them as they set off back towards the double doors that will lead them back inside. "Moon door." A terrible fate, the rumors said, of an endless fall to a miserable death upon rocks below. To his surprise, a shudder rushes through her and she pales, true fear crossing her features. "I'm sorry, I have disturbed you," he apologizes at once as they step inside, a maid rushing by sparing them only a passing glance. "My lady, please," he grabs her by the arm as she turns away, as if she means to step away. "Allow me to apologize, I did not mean to frighten you." The face she turns back to him is one white with fear, eyes so blue and deep that Jon thinks he truly will lose himself in their depths. "Forgive me."

She had not meant to lose control in such a way, but the mention of the moon door... The memory of the wind whipping across her face, the sharp pressure of Lysa's hands on her shoulders, forcing her down... _No,_ she holds steady, giving her head the smallest of shakes. _You are stronger than this_. "No, it's me who should apologize, it's just..." She trails off, sighing softly as she looks around, as if she too is worried of being overheard. For just a single moment, she wishes to be honest with him. Or as honest as she dares to be. "I once almost fell from the moon door, when I first came to the Vale." She's quite certain that is a memory that will never leave her.

When Jon opens his mouth to speak, he's interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. They both turn as Lord Baelish approaches and the man gives Jon a quick nod before he bows in greeting. "Well met, your grace. Enjoying an hour with my daughter?" Jon's hand falls from where it still rests upon her arm, though yet again he feels the ache of wanting to feel her skin against his. "I fear I must steal her from your company for the morning meal is to begin, but you may certainly have her back later." Something about Baelish's smirk doesn't sit well with Jon, but he forces a smile of his own, thanking the man for his generosity. "Come, Alayne," Baelish gestures for the young woman to follow and once she dips Jon a quick curtsy, she falls into step behind her father, disappearing around a corner.

The moment they are alone, Baelish cannot help but to grin down at the girl. He's not all that shocked, considering her beauty and wits, that the King-Beyond-the-Wall seems quite taken with his Alayne. "You took my words quite to heart, daughter," he says as they stroll down the corridor, taking another turn that leads them not to the main hall, but a secluded one that is full of the servant's quarters. Her heart skips a beat, a cold sense of fear rising up within her; she's felt this fear before.

He's pressed her into the wall a moment later, dangerously close, his breath foul in her face. "The King-Beyond-the-Wall is quite taken with you, even after but an hour together," his smirk is worse than the stench of his breath, but she does not look away. I am stronger than this, she reminds herself, it will soon be over and so I can be brave. "I can only imagine what you did for him..." A shiver races her spine and she swallows, squaring her shoulders beneath the grip he holds upon her.

"Imagine all you like," she spits venom and Baelish grins, he enjoys this side of her so rarely seen.

It's a moment later that he lets his hand fall from where he holds her, stepping backwards to put less than an arm's length between them. It's not enough, it would never be enough. "Like a wolf snapping it's jaws," he's seen this sharp look before, not just on her, but dozens of times in her mother. "I won't risk a bite today." He steps away from her entirely then, strolling back towards the hall they had only just come from. "Enjoy your time with the King while you can, daughter, I should think it likely to see you marry Ramsay Bolton." The raven with their price for the true born daughter of Ned Stark had come only that morning and he knows it's only a matter of time before he can reveal to the world who he holds in his keep.

Something cold washes through her, a warning.

"Perhaps you should make a second gown." Baelish prompts with a chuckle and then he is gone, disappearing around the corner from where they had gone. The moment he's out of sight, she lets out the breath she's been holding and leans against the wall, closing her eyes. _I am brave_ , she thinks, again and again, _I am a Stark and I so I am brave._

She would never forget the blood that ran in her veins, no matter what they called her in the world, she would never forget her name. "I am a Stark," she whispers fiercely, opening her eyes as she straightens her spine. "I am a Stark and I am not afraid."

And then she follows after Baelish.

[ x x x ]

_He's in the gardens again._

_A gentle snow is falling and he can taste the snowflakes on his lips; she stands just ahead of him, her crown of roses woven into her hair. "I've been waiting..." She whispers as she turns around, those blue eyes shining in the moonlight that surrounds her. "I've been waiting for you..." She holds out a hand, as if she means for him to take it, but he can't.. He can't reach her._

_The more steps he takes, it seems the further away she grows. He extends out his arm as far as he can, but his fingertips merely grasp at the cold, winter air. In the distance, a wolf howls, such a melancholy sound that it brings tears to his eyes. "Wait..." He wants to yell, but it is like a whisper that escapes him. "Wait for me..." His quiet plea must reach her, for she smiles._

_"I always will..." A tear that clung to her lashes fell, tracing along the curve of her cheek. The blue roses she wears in her hair begin to crumble, fading to dust as she slowly turns her back to him. Somewhere else, another wolf howls, an answer to the one that came before._

_That's when he hears her speak again..._  
"...Lady..."   
And then...

He's awake.

Moonlight fills his chambers, reminding him of her. This dream... It had been different from the others. Even now he can hear the howl of the wolves, a call and a response, two distinctly different tones. The first one he knows and knows well, he's heard it hundreds of times. Ghost, he thinks of his direwolf, left behind with the wildlings, a lone wolf, very likely one of the last of his kind. Jon had found Ghost as a pup on the outskirts of Wintertown years before and despite the fear he brought others, Jon loved the wolf as much as he would have loved a brother. His loyal, faithful wolf companion meant everything to him.

But the other howl... He racks his brains, but cannot think of another dream where a wolf ever answered Ghost's lone call. And then... What was it that she had spoken? Lady... He reminds himself, recalling the soft, sad vocals of her voice. It couldn't be... _The name of the wolf?_ His mind is racing now and he leans back against his pillows, his heart beating as wildly as his mind spins. He thinks then of the dying roses in her hair, wondering if it was a warning of what was to come and he's filled with a cold sense of dread that sinks deep into his belly.

 _I'll find you,_ he thinks, but it is not her face that comes to mind.

It is Alayne's. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon & Alayne continue to get to know each other while a new duo of guests arrive at the Vale just in time for the wedding.

_She's dreaming of Winterfell again._

_A step into the godswood, sinking ankle deep into the soft white snow. It's beautiful. it's haunting, it's home..._

_Beneath the heart tree, her father stands, his back to her. Joy leaps into her throat, catches the breath in her lungs. Father...! She tries to call out to him, but her voice does not come. He slowly revolves on the spot but as he does, she screams, though even that comes out silent. His face is sunken, rotting, full of decay, the face of a man she saw upon a spike so long ago. Horror fills her up as the face grins for her, hand outstretching as he reaches for her. Her name is on his rotting lips and it is his voice as she remembers, even if the face is not._

_"He's coming for you..." He whispers, again and again, as what's left of his flesh slides from bone. "Wait for him..."_

She snaps awake.

Her breath comes in great gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks as she draws her knees to her chest, curving into herself. That nightmare had come before of course, the horrible sight of her father's decaying head upon the spike in King's Landing a permanent imprint upon her memory. She had hoped to have left the images behind, but even now, she can recall it as well as something that had only just happened.

In the distance, she hears the morning call.

She rubs her eyes, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her nightgown, knowing it would be any moment before Shae came in. Slipping from the bed, she tugs on her robe and casts a quick glance towards the window.

She can't believe it. She doesn't dare believe it.

Rushing across the room, she throws open the frosted window, delight escaping her in the sound of a laugh as she holds out her hand, catching snowflakes in her palm. Overnight, a winter storm surely raged, for now that she looks there must be at least a knee deep draft in the yard. Forgotten is her sorrow of the nightmare and the moment Shae arrives in her rooms, she's begging to be dressed in her thickest wool dress, expressing her desire for a visit to the godswood. Shae knows better than to waste her breath arguing with her young mistress and so she sighs, but fetches the gray woolen gown from the closet all the same.

When she's dressed and her hair braided, she tugs on her velvet cloak, an unfamiliar sense of excitement racing through her. "I will only be but an hour," she says before she's gone from the room, barely able to keep herself from running through the halls. Rather than step out into the gardens where she had gone the day before, she decides she will spend perhaps a quiet hour in the godswood. It is one of the only places she can find a moment to herself, away from even Baelish's prying eyes.

And so she wanders down into the main corridor and towards the double doors that lead out into the side yard, where the pathway down to the godswood sits. When she opens the door, the cold morning air is a slap to her face, but it does not deter her from stepping out into the falling snow. She catches a snowflake upon her tongue, soft and sweet, the memory of home filling her entirely. Her feet take her the familiar path towards the godswood, her skirts and the height of the snow making her trek a bit more difficult. She's surprised to see another set of footsteps already breaking up the snowfall, leading down the very same path she's taking now. Baelish never makes a trip to the godswood, unless it was to seek her out, so she knows it cannot be him. Sweetrobin certainly would not be down there, so she's truly uncertain of who she might stumble upon beneath the weirwood trees.

She approaches the tallest of the weirwoods and that's when she sees him standing there beneath it, as if he's waiting for her.

Jon isn't a man known for praying.

Certainly he knows about the gods, the old ones and the new ones, too, but he's not heard much from any one of the gods in his twenty something years alive. But there was just... A strange attraction to the godswod, as if he was meant to be down there. In the quiet darkness of the early morning, he finds a moment of peace, a moment of calm.

But then he hears the footsteps.

She's beautiful there beneath the weirwood trees, the snowfall dusting her hair as her lips curve with a smile at the sight of him. "You are early to rise, you grace," she greets with a slight incline of her head, dark hair falling across her shoulder with the movement. "I have always thought myself to be the only one awake so early in the mornings." The truth was, her sleep was always so full of nightmares, sometimes waking early was her only saving grace.

"The wildlings always rise before the dawn, so I am used to it," he explains, this was the life he's only known. "Please, let me not disturb your hour of prayer," he gestures for her to step past him so he might return to the palace. "I only meant to have a look at the heart tree," sure enough, when she follows the line of his footsteps they lead right for the center tree.

"You won't disturb my prayer for I have not come to pray," she speaks honestly, beckoning him to follow along if he wished. "I like to have an hour to myself before the day begins," she goes on as they approach the heart tree. Beneath the great canopy of trees, the snow has not yet built as it has in the yard and so she sinks to the ground, a huddle of black and gray. She does not tell him she's not prayed in years- the gods do not listen to her, that much she knows. "I can be alone here." Her admission is soft and Jon turns to look down at her where she sits, seeing again that flicker of sorrow. As if there is something so much deeper and darker inside of her, something she does not speak of.

He drops down beside her and she's turning towards him, her blue eyes drawing him in. "It is strange," he says, looking up into the trees above them, the soft snow drifting down, tickling his cheeks. "It was as if my feet brought me here all their own," he glances her way and finds she's already looking back. "Like the godswood pulled me here." For some reason, saying these words aloud to her doesn't seem strange, it doesn't feel wrong. It's as if he can always speak his truth to her.

She smiles, but his words are a painful reminder of her father, who also once said to her that he always felt an attraction to the godswood that he could never explain. "It's the heart tree," she gestures towards the great trunk of the tree they sit beneath, the face carved into the bark staring back at her. "My father says beneath a heart tree, a man cannot lie." Inwardly she flinches- the man he thinks is her father has never said such a thing to her. She thinks of her father and his gentle kindness, his soft but deep voice that she has almost all but forgotten the sound of.

Jon is surprised, from his few meetings with Petyr Baelish, he does not strike him as a man full of words of wisdom. He can't help but to sell the man short, something about him just... Doesn't sit well with him. "The gods listen, do they?" Jon questions to which she chuckles, nodding.

"Or so they say." Her shoulders lift in a shrug and she adjusts her place upon the cold ground, leaning forward to scoop up a fist full of snow into her palm. "I'm not certain they listen to us all," the words escape her before she can stop them and she shoots him a somewhat apologetic look. "You said you wanted to see the moon door, did you not?" She abruptly changes the subject, steering their conversation elsewhere.

Though Jon longed to press her about what she said, he supposes he doesn't yet know her well enough for such intimate thoughts. "But you..." He recalls her reaction from the day before, but to his surprise she's grinning, rising up to her feet so she can brush the snow from her skirts.

"Perhaps I can conquer my fear of it this way," she says, shoulders raising in another shrug.

Jon can't help but to grin, pushing himself up from the ground to join her at full height. "Only if you're sure." She nods, turning her head against the icy wind that suddenly blows, catching at their clothes and biting the exposed skin of cheeks and ears. "Come, it's cold," he says, offering her his arm to take, to which she smiles, tilting her head for a moment before she slides her hand into place against his elbow.

Together, they begin to make their way back up towards the side yard of the palace, unaware that from a high window, Baelish watches. He can't help but to smirk as he watches the young couple make their way up from the godswood and back towards the door that will lead them inside. She is laughing at something Jon must have said for her head is thrown back, a smile on her face that Baelish has never seen before, a smile that must certainly be the truest one she's worn in years. Truly, looking at them he can imagine them to be a young couple in love and he chuckles.

Things might truly get interesting.

[ x x x ]

He finds her in the hall after the morning meal ends.

She's talking to her serving woman, a pretty brunette with a strange accent, who shoots him a dark look when he approaches. At once, Jon is reminded of a protective mother bear, willing to put herself into harms way to protect her young. But Alayne puts a hand to her lady's arm and smiles, softening the woman. "Your grace," she breathes as he approaches, the woman beside her curtsying to him, though her dark eyes do not leave his. "Come, this way," she gestures for him to follow after her and so he does, falling into step behind her down the hall, towards another set of doors.

These doors are ornate, the Arryn house sigil carved into their surface, handles made from what Jon can only assume is solid silver. Together, they step through these doors into a large, quite wide open chamber, with high ceilings that echo every step they take towards the center of the room. "It's just there," she says, her voice quiet; though she's pale, her eyes shine with a sense of determination Jon has not yet seen from her.

He alone steps forwards, towards the center of the room that is a step lower than the rest of the space. There at the very center he sees the door, it's size just large enough for an average size man to fall through. "You can open it..." She whispers, suddenly at his side, peering over his shoulder at the door. Jon swallows, his heart thumping, but he does as she bids, leaning over and taking hold of the handle on the cover. It is heavier than he expects, but he lifts it and sets it aside, revealing to him the endless fall of the moon door.

The wind screams past the opening, a shriek that sends chills racing the length of his spine. Far, far below, he can see the rocks that wait for the most unfortunate of people who fall through the door. Most certainly death awaits those who fall through the moon door. Jon spares Alayne a glance, wondering now that he's seen it, just how she was able to almost accidentally fall through the door. Surely, it must be covered at all times... For a single instance, he wonders if someone tried to push her through it, though he could not imagine such an awful thing for her. She stares down at the moon door, pale but strong, unblinking as she leans over as far as she dares.

Even now, she can recall the terror of being held against the edge of the moon door, her face plunged far enough down that the wind whipped her hair from its braids. _Look down_ , her aunt was screaming, _look down!_ And look down she had. She had thought for sure she would fall through, that after all she had been through, that was to be her end. But Baelish had come, saving her from a fate so horrible she cannot even think about it.

Stepping back, she lets out the breath she's been holding, just as Jon allows the cover to fall back into place. "You are brave," he says when he turns to face her, offering her an encouraging sort of smile. "There are men twice your age who would not face their fears like you just did." A smile twists on her lips and she gives him a nod, opening her mouth to speak before the doors swing open and Alayne's handmaiden steps into the room, approaching them where they stand.

"My lady, your grace," she dips a curtsy before focusing her brown eyes upon Alayne. "Apologies for interrupting, but guests are arriving and your father wishes for you to greet them." Young Robin's wedding was in two days and while the palace was still full of activity to prepare, additional guests had begun to arrive just the day before.

"I suppose I must excuse myself for now." She says as she turns to Jon, smiling her apology. "I will see you at the feast tonight." It was quite the spectacle that Baelish was putting on for the young lord Arryn, with feasting the two nights before the wedding itself, which of course was a day of celebration as well. "I am in charge of Lady Manderly when she arrives, I suppose it is only appropriate that I welcome her to the Vale." She sinks into a curtsy and as she rises up, Jon is reaching for her hand, surprising her. Much like a courtier himself, he brushes his lips across her knuckles, soft and slow, and she's certain her knees are going to give way beneath her.

"Until tonight," he says, voice raspy, hesitant to let go of her hand. But he does and he watches her as she walks out of the room, dark hair swinging as she goes. At the doors, she turns back around, just for a moment, and flashes him one last smile before she's gone, the doors falling closed behind her.

That smiles stays with him, even long after she's gone.

[ x x x ]

At the doors that lead out into the front of the palace, she joins Lord Baelish, surprised to see that Robin is not with him. "Father," she greets with a bow of her head, casting a quick glance at the few guards that stand within earshot. "Where is Robin?" She asks, glancing this way and that way, as if the boy might appear from another direction. "Is it not the Manderly girl arriving? Should he not be here to meet his future bride?"

Lord Baelish smiles, shaking his head as he points towards the line of soldiers making their way through the gates, a few riders on horseback coming up the back. "It is not the bride who arrives, sweet child," he says, gesturing towards the banners that some of the footmen carry. Indeed, it is not the Manderly sigil she sees, but a grotesque one of a man hanging upside down, skin flayed from his bones. "It is the Bolton's." Her heart skips a beat, but her face does not betray her apprehension, but rather she holds her head up just a little bit higher.

The two men on horseback dismount at the foot of the stairs and together, they climb up until they stand upon the landing as well. "Lord Bolton," Baelish greets with his sickly sweet smile, offering the man a nod of his head. "It has been some time."

"Baelish," Roose Bolton nods, gesturing towards the young man on his side. "My son, Ramsay." He steps forward, perhaps just a few years older than she, with a head of dark hair and cold, dark eyes. A shiver races her spine, a warning of sorts, as those eyes fall upon her, his lips curving with a smile that holds no warmth at all.

"My daughter," Baelish says and she takes a small step forward, greeting both men with soft words of welcome. Though his face does not show it, Lord Bolton is pleased with the sight of the young woman- she is certainly a beauty and if she truly is who Baelish claims her to be... Then she is worth every penny he's to pay. "Alayne." Baelish had told him of hiding her identity, to keep her safe from the Lannister's down South, but his plan to reveal her true name was close at hand. Upon the marriage with his son, they will have both Winterfell and the Stark heir. The North would truly be his. "Come, I have had rooms prepared for you." Baelish's voice draws him back and Roose nods, sparing the young woman only one final glance before he follows after Baelish, gesturing for his son to come along as well.

Behind them, she falls into step, listening to the conversation between the two men, though not really hearing the words that they're saying. From where he walks just a pace ahead of her, Ramsay is looking over his shoulder at her, his gaze as cold and as empty as a devil's. She's seen such a look before... In Joffrey. The mere memory of it sends waves of fear through her and she is filled with relief when Baelish excuses her from their company, leading the two men up the staircase to a hall that will house them during their stay. Baelish has provided them with two of the better rooms, surprising her, telling her that there is something underfoot.

Something she's certain not to like.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne and Jon find themselves closer than they've ever been, but it can never last. Nothing ever does.

The Vale is utterly transformed. 

Halls gleam with light- hanging lanterns are strung up through every corridor, blazing silver and gold from the high ceilings. It would seem that Baelish and Lord Manderly spared no expense for this wedding. There are people everywhere, guests upon guests in clusters around the main floor of the palace and from the great hall comes music played upon the harps and strings. 

She stands at the top of the stairs, waiting for Lord Baelish to appear, for it is only appropriate for her to walk into the hall on the arm of her father. He's there a few moments later, coming from the eastern staircase, approaching her with a smile. "You look beautiful, the gown is most becoming." His stare is not only for her face and she colors, enduring his stare as she always has. It leaves her with a sick feeling in her stomach, but she only smiles her thanks for his compliments, taking his arm when he offers it. "If you were truly peasant born, you could make a fortune from your dress making." This is perhaps the first compliment he's given her that does not leave a foul taste in her mouth and she smiles again, thanking him for the fabric he had provided her with to make it at all. 

For the wedding feast, she had chosen to use the yellow silk, pulling together a gown she was truly proud of. The skirts were long, bustled in the back at her waist, a fashionable trend she had gathered from her time in the South. She had embroidered a white floral pattern along the gown's long, sweeping sleeves, doing the same along the trailing hem of the skirts. The bodice fit snugly, the cut not nearly as deep as Margaery might have worn, but deeper than any of her other gowns might have had. Her hair was a pulled back into a coil of curls, pinned into place with jeweled pins she had brought with her from King's Landing. Around her neck hangs a simple gold pendant, something her mother had given to her many years ago. "I still wonder what your plan is," she says, rather than respond to his previous comments. The look Baelish shoots her is one of surprise, a brow raised. "With the Manderly girl, I mean. This wedding was made in such haste. Surely, there is motive behind your arranging this whole thing." 

Once again, he's struck by her understanding. 

"She is quite the wealthy heiress," he says by way of explanation, but from the look she gives him, Baelish can tell she hasn't accepted that answer. He should have known she wouldn't. "And her father, though young enough, surely will have no sons follow him." He goes on, patting her arm tenderly as if they are sharing a sweet moment between father and daughter, their quietly spoken words unheard by those around them. They both know how to play this game. 

"So it is power in White Harbor you're after," she replies with a slight shrug, eyes staring ahead as they make their way down the hall, passing by dozens of guests who smile and nod as they go by. When Lord Manderly dies, power will pass to his oldest daughter who has only just hours ago married Robin. Together, they will have a claim over quite an expanse of territory, and considering young Robin's mental capacity... It means Baelish will have true control. "You should watch your step," she speaks quietly as they approach the doors that will lead them into the main hall. Baelish cannot help but to smirk at her warning, though she's not wrong to give it; but he knows the risks, he knows them well. 

He does not reply as they step through the doorway and into the hall, it is not a conversation to be had among so many people. Instead, he watches as she transforms into someone else entirely, her smile bright as she allows him to lead her up to the head table, where Robin and his Manderly bride already sit in the spots of honor at the center. 

From where he stands in the back of the room, Jon watches her come in, a radiant dream in yellow silk. She's smiling, her cheeks fulls of color as she sinks into the chair beside the young bride, pouring the pale faced girl a goblet of spiced wine. Her dark hair is twisted back in the most elegant of ways and the pendant at her throat catches the light as she moves. He's mesmerized by the sight of her and it isn't until he overhears hushed whispers to his side that his trance is broken.

"... Quite like the Tully's, wouldn't you say?" 

It's two men, well dressed lords from various houses, tucked into the corner near where Jon still stands. "Aye, there is a look of Lady Arryn," the second man agrees, casting a glance to where Alayne sits at the head table. "Though more like a young Cat Tully, you remember her as a girl, down in Riverrun, with hair so red it was like fire." 

"If not for the hair, I would take her for a Tully bastard. You think she was Lysa's?" The first man says as the call for dinner comes, the pair making their way towards the tables so they might find their place to sit. Jon follows, his place just a little further down from where they sit, though he lingers as long as he dares, hoping to catch even just a moment more of their conversation. But he's ushered into his place by palace staff and so he must settle into his chair that's opposite of a man he knows to be called Royce. Alayne has yet to mention her mother to him so he wonders if she, like himself, does not know even just her mother's name. He looks up to where she sits and he realizes she's already looking his way; their eyes meet and she smiles, causing Jon's pulse to quicken it's pace. He thinks back to what the men had been saying, about her having the look of a Tully, known for having hair like golden fire and that's when it hits him... Her hair color. He had thought it strangely unfitting for her, though when he pictures her with auburn locks, it's perfect... He can see her with fire kissed hair and those big blue eyes, a combination of beauty that would bring any man to his knees. And more than anything else... 

It's the girl from his dreams. 

Red hair bathed in moonlight, blue eyes a reflection of the stars... It's all coming back to him, the memory of the dream, of a soft snow falling around them as they meet in the frozen gardens. _I'm waiting,_ she had whispered to him this time, _I know you'll come for me._ A strange feeling is welling up within him, as if he knows things are going to change, as if fate is giving him an advantage of knowing that somehow, someway, things were never going to be the same again.

[ x x x ]

The music begins when the tables have been cleared away, leaving space for dancing.

From where she stands, she watches Robin and his bride awkwardly meet in the center of the room, to share a first dance together as the room around them erupts in cheers and claps. When they have begun, other couples begin to pair up and soon, the room is full of dancing and laughter, a true celebration in full swing. 

To her surprise, it takes only a few moments for Jon to find her. 

"My lady," he greets before she can speak, bowing to her as if were queen and he just a simple lord. "Dance with me, won't you?" He asks when he straightens his spine, his smile quick as he holds out her hand for him to take. Slipping her hand into his, she nods, allowing him to lead her out onto the floor, joining the other couples who dance around them. 

"I didn't know the King of the Free Folk would know how to dance," she teases as they fall into perfect step, his grace surprising her. "But you do it well." 

Jon grins as he swings her out and back in, unsurprised by his partner's nimble feet, rather he's more focused on the way her yellow gown clings to her lithe frame, wondering for the briefest of moments what it might look like on the floor of his chamber instead. "Thank you," he forces himself away from such thoughts, though there's something about the way she looks at him that tells Jon she might wonder the same thing. "Your dress is lovely, your father mentioned you're a talented dressmaker." It's her turn to grin as she twirls away and back again, yellow skirts swirling with her movements. When she's back in his arms, they both feel it, the warm spark of contact as his hand falls back into place at her waist, as their other hands meet, skin to skin. "Alayne..." Her name is a whisper on his lips, suddenly, he's quite forgotten that they're in a room full of people. 

But she hasn't.

"Your grace..." She prompts softly and Jon jumps, returning to the present as the music slows, the dance ending as people around them erupt in cheers. "Thank you for the dance," she says before she dips him a curtsy and hurries off, well aware of both her beating heart and the intense heat of his gaze upon her retreating back. 

From where he stands across the room, Lord Baelish watches, a grin toying with his lips.

[ x x x ]

He's drunk.

For the better part of three hours, he's done little else but drink. He watches her most of the night- he watches when Ramsay Bolton offers her a dance, his cold eyes hungry when they fall upon her. As if she's little more than a horse he's selecting for his stable. He watches as she dances with her father, with the young groom, with several other men throughout the night. She doesn't seek him out again, though their eyes meet throughout the evening. Every time her eyes catch his, Jon feels his heart skip a beat. 

Now, he finds himself in his chambers, shed of his outer layers of clothes, left behind just his breeches and undershirt. The fire burns in his hearth, casting the room into a hazy glow; he knows he should sleep, but something compels him to remain where he was. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

It's a soft knock, perhaps somewhat hesitant, but it catches his attention all the same. At once, he springs across the room, somehow knowing who it is that stands at his door. It's her, it's Alayne, looking timid in her yellow gown. Her dark hair is free from its pins and braids, left long and loose down her back, enticing him where he stands, wishing to slide his hands into it, to feel the softness of the strands between his fingers. "I'm sorry, it's late but I..." She's wringing her hands, looking down at her feet as if she's embarrassed by being there at his door. But Jon shakes his head, stepping aside to allow her the space to step inside. When the door falls closed behind them, he leads her towards the hearth, where he had only just been standing. "I had to see you." She's thinking about what Baelish had told her that night, just after the feast, about the choosing of her husband. "I...-" 

  
She's cut off by his kiss, slow and warm. It's a kiss that spreads warmth through her entire being. A kiss that weakens her knees, that steals the breath from her very lungs. "I've wanted to do that from the moment I met you," he whispers when he pulls his lips from hers, if only to catch his breath. Her lips curve with a smile; he can feel it. "It's like I've known you all my life," he goes on, a hand slides into her hair. It is as soft as he had thought it would be. "Like I've been waiting for you all my life." Alcohol gives him the courage to speak the truth of his heart. 

"I feel it, too," she murmurs back, finger tips tracing the curve of his jaw, stubble rough against the soft skin of her hand. There's so many things she wants to tell him, so many things there on the tip of her tongue. But she kisses him instead, knowing if nothing else, she would have this one single night. 

When Jon takes her by the hand and leads her towards his bed, she does not hesitate. 

[ x x x ]

  
In the morning, she wakes just before the morning call. 

Jon snores in the bed beside her, one of his arms still draped protectively over her hips. Smiling, she leans over him and presses a kiss against his temple, wishing with all of her heart that she could stay there with him forever. But fate has sent her in another direction now, one that will allow her to reclaim not just her home, but her family. And so she carefully, quietly, slides out from beneath his touch and shimmies back into her discarded yellow gown. She pauses for only a moment more, at the door, to turn back and cast him one last glance. Thinking back to their night together, she smiles and tip toes back towards the bed, pulling from around her neck the pendant she had been wearing, the one from her mother. It's a simple pendant- wrought in gold and set with a single gleaming stone, something her mother had given her the morning she left for King's Landing so long ago. She swallows and sets the pendant down on the table at his bedside, leaving it behind for him, hoping he might keep it and think of her, think of Alayne. And then she is gone, slipping into the darkened hall and disappearing around the corner. 

Reaching her own rooms, she slips inside, naturally greeted by Shae. 

"I was worried!" Her handmaiden admonishes, though her tone is harsh, her eyes are soft and thankful when they meet. Shae takes in the sight of her then; rumpled gown, half hanging from her, laces loose at her back. Hair wild, as if hands had been tangled in its length for most of the night. No, Shae isn't ignorant, she knows where her charge has been and she can't say that she blames her. "It was him, wasn't it? The King Beyond the Wall." When her young lady blushes, Shae smiles. "Did you tell him?" The young woman sobers and heaves a sigh, shaking her head.

"I couldn't," she admits, slipping past Shae towards the hearth, stepping out of the yellow gown and laying it across the back of the nearest chair. Shae has already brought her robe, helping her arms into the sleeves before she ties the sash at her waist, though she's told her dozens of times she need not dress her as she used to in King's Landing. Anytime she brought it up, Shae would just smile and nod, but would appear again to help her dress and was, without a single doubt, the only person she knew she could fully trust in the world. "Besides, it's not as if I'll see him again... Not once I'm back at Winterfell, that is." 

Though everything in her screamed that this was a mistake, she's going to marry Ramsay Bolton in less than a fortnight. She would return home, back to Winterfell, back to her little brothers that the Bolton's hold in their keep. Ramsay and his father promised to help her find Arya as well and that Winterfell would still be hers, always hers. Though she knew not if she could trust them on any of their promises, she has try, she has to find her family again. And so she agreed to the marriage and on this very day, her real name would be revealed to the world. 

"I must wash," she says, turning back to face Shae; finally she would wash Alayne Stone away. 

[ x x x ]

When Jon wakes, he finds himself alone.

Not that he blames her for leaving without waking him- he knows there was danger in what they did the night before for her. In his world among the Free Folk, there was no distaste for casual relationships as there was in Westeros, especially among the nobility. If she had been found in his bed by anyone... It would have been a scandal. And so, her being gone before the morning call doesn't really surprise him. 

Slipping from the bed, he means to reach for his discarded breeches, but realizes only then that there is something on his bedside table that wasn't there before. Reaching for it, he realizes it was the pendant necklace Alayne had been wearing the night before. Something odd strikes him about that realization, so he hangs it around his own neck, tucking it carefully beneath his shirt, intent on returning it to her later that day. 

Jon dresses then and leaves his rooms, heading down towards the great hall where the morning meal would begin in just a few minutes. The room is as full as always, though Jon notices the tell tale signs of men who had drank far too much the night before. At the head table, Jon notices Lord Baelish sits, the chair beside him empty, indicating that Alayne had not yet arrived downstairs for the meal. As the last of the guests trickle in from the hall, Baelish stands up, that sick grin on his face once more. "Thank you, my lords, my ladies, for joining us again this morning." He stares out at the many faces, catching eyes with Lord Bolton for a moment before he continues on. "I have something of an announcement to make to you all, the great families of the North that sit here in my hall." A murmur ripples along the room and Baelish waits until silence falls again to continue speaking. "It was not that long ago that our liege lord Ned Stark was taken so violently from us." Another ripple and Jon knows at once who Lord Baelish speaks of, the old Warden of the North, Ned Stark had been executed by Cersei and Joffrey Lannister, the rest of his family dead or disappeared. "The roots of his family... His beloved children... All dead or assumed so..." Baelish says and Jon can see the sadness on many faces in the room. "Until now." Dark eyes dart across the room, reading the faces, knowing this was going exactly how he had hoped it with. "Sansa Stark is alive." Outright shouts erupt now, shocked cries from many in the room as this news settles upon them. Jon has heard that name mentioned before, even just during his stay in the Vale. Sansa Stark had been the oldest daughter of Ned Stark who disappeared after Joffrey's death, supposedly she was even the murderer. "I brought her from King's Landing the day Joffrey Lannister was poisioned and I have hid her here, among you, all this time." He turns back and knocks on the door behind him, alerting whoever is on the other side. 

A collective gasp goes up as the opens and a young woman steps out. 

Jon knows her, without a doubt, he knows it's her. She comes to stand beside Baelish, her long red hair a stark contrast to the black gown she wears, a nervous smile on her rosy lips. Even from where he sits in the crowd, Jon knows that it's the maiden from his dreams, the one he's known for his whole life. And what's more than that... She's Alayne. All this time, she's been right there under his nose, he'd just been too thick to see it. His heart hammers hard in his chest and beneath the table, a hand curls into a fist. Something inside of him already knows he won't like whatever comes next. 

"Lady Stark is to return home," Baelish is grinning once more, turning to face someone among those who look up at him. "She has agreed to marry the son of our new Warden in the North, Roose Bolton." Some in the room clap and cheer for the man as he rises up to his feet to acknowledge their praise, though Jon notices there are many dark faces at the mention of this Roose Bolton. "Ramsay, if you would." The man rises up, acknowledging not the crowd, but Sansa where she stands, by approaching the table and reaching for her hand, leaning over to kiss it as a courtier might. Though she smiles, Jon can see it does not reach her eyes, and something cold twists in his heart. Reaching for his goblet of ale, Baelish holds it into the air and smiles. "A toast, to our future Warden in the North and his bride." 

As the crowd cheers, Sansa finds Jon's eyes; she hopes he forgives her for this. She had used him, mostly for her own selfish desires, to know what it would be like to be loved by a man that loved her and not her name nor her title. For just one night of her life, she wanted to be loved for her and nothing else. Truth be told, she found herself to be falling in love with the King Beyond the Wall, but it didn't matter now. This was her new path, whether she wanted it to be or not. This was so she could go home, this was so she could see Bran and Rickon. Nothing mattered more than them.

Not even her own happiness. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa returns home and finds that her life back at Winterfell is unlike anything she's ever before experienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH WOW bet ya didn't think this would see an update, huh??   
> well here it is!! after many updates & many tweaks to the chapter @_@ 
> 
> anyways, this is my little note to also mention that there's some abuse mentions / just a general trigger warning, since we're dealing with ramsay stuff in this chapter. i had intended this story to conclude after six chapters, but finishing this chapter makes me think it'll be longer than that. let's hope this inspiration continues lol

He finds her exactly where he thought he would, sitting beneath the canopy of weirwood leaves, the lightest dusting of snow brushing her shoulders. She looks up as he approaches but her face does not change- there is no radiance, not even a smile. Instead, she blinks as if she's not even certain she's seeing correctly- and then she tucks her chin back against her knees. 

"Alayne.... I mean.. Sansa..." Her real name is still unfamiliar, yet it feels right, a name fitting for a woman such as her. "I hoped to speak with you," he goes on, coming to stand just before her, peering down at where she sits. "About..." About who she was.. Where she had come from... About this impending marriage of hers that's to the cold, dark eyed Ramsay Bolton.

"There is nothing for me to say," she interrupts, hoping her angry tone strikes him, but even to her it sounds half hearted. Blue eyes raise up to meet eyes that remind her so much of her father, of Arya, that it steals the breath from her lungs. . "Just who are you..." She asks softly, though she doesn't really expect an answer; she smiles as a hand cradles his cheek. "I'd give anything to stay with you." She admits, knowing it won't change anything, even if he felt the same. "I meant what I said last night." 

His hand is reaching for hers then, tugging it close to him. "I will take Winterfell back for you," he vows, but she laughs, shaking her head. 

"I could never ask that of you." She slips her hand further up, fingertips toying with a stray curl. "If something happened..." _If something happened to you... To my brothers..._ She can't bring herself to speak such thoughts, but she hopes as she leans in to capture his mouth one last time, he'll understand. "This is what I must do," she whispers as she rises up, leaving him there, kneeling in the snow. 

As she walks away, Jon hears the sob that escapes her, one that leaves him just as broken. 

[ x x x ]

"It is almost time." 

It's Lord Baelish who stands in her rooms, come up from the main floor where he had ensured her several trunks of belongings were loaded carefully into the three carriages that would make their slow descent down from the Eyrie. In just a day's time, she too would make her way back down to the main ground, to travel back North, back to Winterfell. Sansa knows she should be happy, but she cannot shake the cold sense of dread that fills her stomach at the mere thought. "You don't look happy, sweetheart," Baelish continues, his voice sickly sweet, eyes peering down at her from where he stands. "You're to go home." 

"Yes, to live with the man who murdered my brother," she snaps, a wolf snapping her jaws, a warning. Baelish grins; they've been here before and he's ever intrigued by this side of Sansa Stark. "I cannot wait." She spits venom, turning from him before he can reach for her. 

His hand find hers, turning her in towards him. Clear blue eyes stare back at him as he slips his hand into place against her cheek; it feels wrong that it is not Jon in his place. "There is no justice in this world unless you make it." Baelish murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead against hers. "You can sit in these dark rooms, mourning your losses, or you can take revenge on those who hurt your family. Hurt you." Her eyes widen slightly, but her mouth remains a stubborn tight line, the sight bringing a soft chuckle from his lips. He leans in, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead, as if he is truly a man who cares for her, not a man that has simply sold her to the highest bidder. "I would never make you do something you don't want to do. All you must do is say the word and I will call the marriage off..." She senses the but long before he says it. ".... But... Your brothers. I cannot promise their safety..." She blanches and Baelish knows he has her. "You were given a second chance, Sansa, do something with it." 

It takes a moment, but she finally nods. It's all she can do. 

[ x x x ]

The day Sansa leaves, so does Jon and his few companions. 

It's hours before she goes, giving her no chance at all to speak to him one last time. Instead, in the chambers he once occupied, she finds just one thing left behind: a well worn, fur lined cloak. It is the one he wore all those days until recently, when she had presented him with one made by her own hands, crafted in the Northern style of her Stark family. It suits you, she had said with a smile. 

She picks up his old cloak and swings it around her shoulders; it smells of forest trees and campfire smoke. It smells of him. Tears blur her eyes but she holds her head high, slipping from the room, Jon's cloak still wrapped around her. 

[ x x x ]

When she arrives in Winterfell, she's alone.

Shae has disappeared and Sansa can only hope that she's escaped somewhere safe, perhaps hiding in Wintertown or gone even further, to White Harbor for a ship that would carry her across the Narrow Sea. Anywhere that would keep her safe. Sansa can only hope that someday, she and her loyal handmaiden would indeed meet again. 

"Wife." She cringes at the title, but raises her face to meet the gaze of her husband. Ramsay Bolton is not an ugly man, but his eyes are cold and sharp, his tongue even sharper. Sansa has learned in their several weeks together that he is a violent man, unlike Joffrey when it came to a man striking his lady. It took less than a fortnight for Ramsay to raise his fist to her and still, to this day, she has yet to see nor hear from her brothers. Brothers that were promised to her upon this marriage. "Here you are." She's been wandering the battlements, torn between throwing herself from the highest peak or simply pushing Ramsay instead. She's had such a thought before and it brings a strange smile to her lips. "What is funny, wife?" Sansa thinks of just the night before, when Ramsay's fist had connected with her side, when Ramsay had tossed her to the floor and left her there, uncaring if she rose back up again or not. 

"I was only thinking of when Robb fell from these battlements and broke his arm as a child." She lies, swiftly and smoothly, tilting her head as she stares back at her husband. He will not destroy her, that much is certain; no matter what happens to her at his hands, he will never win. "Is it your step mother? Is it her time come?" Sansa asks, directing the conversation another way, which goes exactly as she thinks it will. Ramsay flinches, his features darkening with a fresh wave of anger. 

"No, I have a gift for you, sweet wife." He grabs her by the wrist, drawing her close to him, his other arm snaking around her waist. For a moment, she is sickened by the touch, this strange, somewhat gentle touch almost worse than the violence. _Almost._ "Come." He steps away from her then and none to gently pulls her along the length of the battlements, ducking back into the warm walls of Winterfell, shaking snow from his dark hair. 

He leads her down to a corridor she's been told to stay out of, a hall that sits at the south side of the castle, so far back that it holds a chill, especially now where there have no fires lit in any of the rooms for months, if not years. "Where are you taking me?" She asks, slowing her steps, though Ramsay merely grunts and tugs on her arm, hard, forcing her on. They stop at a door at the farthest end, to which Ramsay pushes it open, pulling her along inside after him.

The room is dark, an icy chill to the air as if they've just stepped outside. Sansa hovers just behind Ramsay, her gut telling her not to look past him, but Ramsay has other plans. "Your gift, wife," he says, side stepping around so he stands behind her instead, both of his hands on her back. He gives her a push, forcing her another few steps into the room. 

And that's when she sees him.

It's Theon Greyjoy, but... It's not quite Theon, either. The man cowers on the floor before the cold, dark hearth, his face pressed into the old dusty rug he kneels upon. "Reek!" Ramsay snaps suddenly, forcing both Sansa and the man she stares at to jump. "Where are your manners? Stand up and greet your lady." Several beats of silence and slowly, painstakingly, as if his whole body is wrecked with injuries, the man begins to rise up to his knees. When he lifts his face up, Sansa gasps, she cannot help it. Hands to her mouth, she stares down at the bruised, broken face of Theon as behind her, Ramsay begins to laugh his cruel laugh that still yet sends chills down her spine. "Up I said!" He snarls and Theon winces, but forces himself up onto his feet. Sansa can see his knees shaking as he fights to hold himself upright. 

"Th-Theon..." Sansa whispers, but he shakes his head, mumbling words she cannot quite make out. 

"Not Theon, sweetheart, but Reek." Ramsay replies, coming to stand at her side, his lips curving with a malicious sort of smile. "He is your gift. My gift to you, my beloved wife." Sansa pulls her gaze from Theon for only a moment, to shoot the man she calls husband a look; he's still grinning, looking not at her, but at the shell of a man he's turned Theon into.

"I... I don't understand." Sansa whispers, turning back to face Theon, who's begun to tremble. 

"Ah... That's right, I'd forgotten to tell you." Ramsay steps away from her to instead approach Theon, who curled inwards, truly terrified of the man. Something cold was sinking into her, a dark realization that her husband was far worse than a man capable of raising a fist to his wife. "Though... Perhaps Reek would like to tell you why he is your wedding gift." Again, the man flinches, closing his eyes tightly, once more mumbling words that she cannot understand. "Reek here had your little brothers murdered." 

All at once, her world stops spinning. 

She's torn between screaming and throwing up; her heart, already broken, already bruised, aches so fiercely for a moment she thinks she might faint. Ramsay, at the sight of her, laughs once more, a sound she will never, ever forget. The laughter, not of a man, but of a monster. "But you said... Your father said..." She cannot bring herself to say the words. The only reason she had even gone through with this marriage was because they said they had her little brothers in their keep, that they were _safe._

Ramsay is in her face then, a sharp hand clutching fast to her upper arm, bruising beneath the wool of her gown. "I said many things to ensure you married me, wife," he had needed the Stark heir to solidify his claim in the North, especially if his father's wife gave him a son. "It is true, your little brother's are dead. Dead many months, I would say... All thanks to Reek, here." Ramsay turns away from her, gesturing towards Theon who is openly crying now, yet another sound she knows is committed to her memory forevermore. "When I found out what he had done, I... Well, I made sure he was sorry, didn't I, Reek?" He clasps a hand to Theon's shoulder and the man lets out a stifled cry that might have broke her heart, had she not been so consumed by the grief of what she's just learned. 

"Let me return to my rooms, please," she whispers, drawing Ramsay's attention back to her. "I don't want to see anymore of this." Theon's tearstained face stares back at her, but she can look at him no longer and so she forces her gaze back to her husband. Ramsay gives a nod and she turns on her heel, rushing from the room without a single backwards glance. 

And then she runs.

She runs through the halls of Winterfell until she reaches the rooms she's been given, not even the rooms she slept in as a child. Throwing open the door, she rushes inside and slams it closed behind her, leaning against it, chest heaving. Slowly, she sinks to the floor, a heap of black and gray skirts as she draws her knees to her chest, the tears finally breaking through. Burying her face into her knees, she cries; she cries for the loss of the little brothers she had come here to find. She cries for the marriage she so willingly walked into, all so she could find her family again. And she cries for what could have been... If only that day she had accepted Jon's declaration of war, that he would take Winterfell in her name and her name alone., 

But now he was gone and so were her baby brothers. Arya, too, had not been seen in how long now? No... She was alone in the world now. There was no one else left to her; no parents, no siblings, not even Shae was at her side anymore. 

She was completely and utterly alone.

[ x x x ]

_He's in the gardens again, but these are gardens full of spring, gardens full of life._

_The aroma of flowers is overwhelming, but it is what propels him forwards, towards the center of the gardens. And as always, she stands there, waiting for him... Red hair catches in the wind as she turns towards him, as if she senses his approach, and in the sunlight she is radiant._

_"I've been waiting." Is all she says, opening her arms to him, her smile brighter than the sun that hangs over their heads. "I knew you would come."_

_Jon smiles, nodding. Of course had had come, of course. There was nothing that could keep him from her ever again. He reaches for her and..._

He wakes. 

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Jon sits up in bed, the scent of flowers still trapped in his nose, the heat of her skin as he reached for her still an imprint against his own. It was as if he'd truly been standing in that garden, the most real of any of the dreams he's had of her. 

A knock sounds on the door, reminding him that he's ignored the morning call, just for an hour or two more of sleep. The door opens and it's Tormund that struts inside, shaking his head at the sight of his king. In the months since their departure from the Vale, Jon has sunken deeper and deeper into a depression, choosing to spend hours locked in this very room, a jug of ale his only companion. "Still abed, are you?" Tormund asks, coming to stand at the side of Jon's bed, staring down at him where he sits, legs now swung over the edge, his clothes rumpled like he's been wearing them for days. "There's news," he goes on, cutting right to the chase, saying the only words that might catch the younger man's attention. "News of your woman." 

Jon looks up, gray eyes widening as their gaze meets Tormund's. "Tell me." 

"Only after you've washed and dressed. You fucking stink." Tormund quips and for a moment, there is only silence. But then Jon can't help but to laugh, giving a nod as he rises up from the bed to stand before his friend. 

When Jon has done as Tormund requested, he seeks him out, finding him in their war tent, though little war planning has been done in there over the last few months, coming in with Ghost on his heels. The wolf has seemed agitated recently, as if he senses something in the air that none of the rest of them can. "So, tell me," Jon says without preamble, gesturing towards the fresh jug of ale on the table, an offer for the redhaired man to help himself. And Tormund does, pouring himself a goblet full as he takes to his usual chair, the one nearest the door, the others empty for once. "What have you heard?" 

"Whispers. Rumors, as the kneelers might say." Tormund gulps down a swallow of ale, leveling his gaze with the man who stands before him. "They aren't nice whispers, little crow." He's heard what information the scouting parties have brought home with them- whispers of the violence in Winterfell, whispers that the Lady Stark was married to a madman. "It's said that those Stark boys are dead. Been dead, in fact." Tormund watches as Jon's face pales, then hardens, his anger taking root. "The last scouts said..." He tapers off, shaking his head, uncertain how Jon might react to the rest of what he has to say. 

"Go on, Tormund." Jon encourages, his voice eerily calm, though a storm rages in his gray eyes. 

"They said they heard the Lady Stark had not been seen outside of the castle in several weeks now." There was no saying what that meant, considering winter had finally come to Winterfell. But there was something that felt off about the fact that Lady Stark had not been seen. "Also it's said that Roose Bolton is two moons dead." That left Ramsay Bolton as Warden in the North, married to the heir of Winterfell. 

Jon clenches a hand into a fist at his side. _I should have never let her go to him, I should have protected her...._ He slams that same fist down atop the war table, a low growl escaping him. He recalls their last moments together, back in the Vale, back beneath the weirwood trees of the godswood. _This is what I must do..._ He had heard the rumors after that, of course, that she had only gone to the marriage to find her brothers. Jon could not blame her for that- she had lost her family, one by one, he could not fault her for wishing to be with the last remaining siblings she had by any means necessary. Even marrying a man she didn't love. _I meant what I said last night..._ Those words... The ones he's carried with him all this time... Jon knows what he must do, what he always should have done. 

"Call the men," Jon orders, calming his racing heart and his anger. 

It was time to go to war. 

[ x x x ]

When he stands at her door, he hesitates, as he always does. 

He doesn't want to see her this way, nor does he even wish to face her at all. But he knows what will happen to him, and likely to her, if he does not do as he's told. And so he pushes the door open and steps across the threshold. 

She sits in a chair she's dragged away from the dying hearth to instead settle by the window, her head tipped against the frosted pane. If she notices his entry, she does not show it, for she does not move, does not even stir. "My lady," he says after a moment, clearing his throat, finally catching her attention. She nearly leaps from the chair in fright, blue eyes wide and clear, eyes so full of fear that it buckles his knees. "I-I've brought you supper," he finds his footing and holds up the tray, a plate with the last evenings leftovers, barely warm after his long walk from the kitchens to where Ramsay keeps her. 

"I don't want it," she says, as she always does, venom behind her voice. Reek sets the tray down on the table all the same, trading the new plate for the old, with her breakfast still left upon it. He wonders when she's last eaten, when she's last slept. There's a bruise to her arm that was not there that morning and he closes his eyes. "Theon..." He opens his eyes, flinching at the sound of the name that was no longer his. 

"Reek, my lady," he reminds her. 

To his surprise, she rises up from the chair she sits in, her once glorious locks falling dull and tangled down her back. Her rosy lips are dry and cracking, her ivory skin is littered with the proof of what Ramsay does to her each and every night. "You have to help me, Theon," she whispers, coming closer, the gown she wears slipping from her shoulders, two sizes to big for her skeletal body. "Please." 

"You're his wife now... You must do as he says. It's better if you just do what he says." Reek replies, shaking his head, unable to face her, unable to look her in the eyes. Not after what he's done. "He'll hurt you if you don't..."

"He already hurts me," she says in a voice so pitiful that he wishes he could die, right then, right there. He knows he does, the whole castle knows what Ramsay Bolton does to their lady, but not one of them is strong enough, brave enough, to protect her. He hates himself for that, more than anything else. "He hurts me every night, Theon. It can't be worse than this." 

For the first time, he looks up and into her face, meeting her gaze. "It can be." His cryptic words settle between them and she blinks, torn between pity and fear. In that moment, they are the same, two people broken by the same man. In that moment, they understood one another in a way perhaps no one else ever could. 

"What did he do to you?" She asks, softer than ever before, closer than ever before. A slightly shaking hand is reaching out, fingers ready to fall into place against his bearded jaw. But he pulls back, sharply, he does not deserve her pity, nor her touch. "Theon!" She barks suddenly, fiercely, her hands taking hold of his arms. Reek yanks away, but she holds fast, ignoring the whimpers he emits. "You betrayed my family!" She sobs, nails clenching, forcing him back to face her. "Theon, please!" 

"I'm sorry," is all he can cry. 

"You must help me," she whispers, tears clinging to her lashes, her grip slack. "You killed my brothers," she chokes on the words, the pain of it as fresh as it was the day she learned the truth. "Please, Theon, please." 

"My name is Reek now," he swallows, finally slipping his arm from her grasp. "Reek." 

"No!" She cries suddenly, those hands which once gripped his arms now catch his cheeks between her palms, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Your name is Theon Greyjoy, last survivin son of Balon Greyjoy, lord of the Iron Islands." She speaks clearly, sternly, her blue eyes dark and damp as they stare into his. Though he so badly wants to look away, pull away, there is something almost... Comforting in her stare. He realizes then, he's seen this gaze before, long ago when they were hardly more than kids. In that moment, this is the Sansa Stark he remembers. "My family still has friends in the North." She says, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders. "Please, I just need to get him a signal." Turning away, she reaches for the single candle that sits upon her table, tearing it from its holder. She realizes only then she's said him, as if she thinks there was a chance it would be Jon who comes riding into Winterfell to save her. "Put this in the window of the Broken Tower... Promise me, Theon." She forces the candle into his hands, pushing away the notion that it could ever be Jon. "Promise me." 

For a long moment, they stand there staring at one another until he pockets the candle. He wants to tell her the truth then, the one thing that only he knows, but he cannot bring himself to say another word. Instead, he backs away from her and slowly, silently, he escapes from the room. But just before the door swings shut, he hears the wail escape her. 

[ x x x ]

That night, when all of Winterfell sleeps, Reek climbs to the top of the Broken Tower and lights the candle. 

It's the least he could do. 

[ x x x ]

It's Reek that first notices the lingering gazes from within the trees. 

He's down by the river, snuck away for several stolen moments while Ramsay bathed in his rooms, his only time in all the hours of the day where for even just a moment, he remembers who he used to be. Out here by the frozen water, he recalls the days of his youth- sunny and warm, splashing and laughing with Robb in this very same river. He can remember Bran's laughter as he fought to keep up and the way the sun glinted off the Stark boy's Tully touched hair. Even now, so many years later, he remembers. 

But how could he ever forget? 

That's when he feels it, the feeling of eyes upon him; he snaps up from his wandering thoughts, suddenly tense and on edge, uncertain as to who would be out there among the trees. Strangely enough, when he peers ahead, just across the river, he can see the flicker of a red eyed gaze staring back at him. He's scrambling back as from within the trees comes not a man, but a wolf. A great big wolf that plunges him yet again into the memory of childhood, of those days when the Stark kids stumbled across the litter of wolves in those very same woods. "A direwolf," he whispers, falling back onto his ass, fear coursing through him as the white wolf comes across the river to approach him.

The wolf does not growl, nor does it snap it's jaws; rather, it's intense red eyes stare at him as if it means to tell him something. Reek cannot explain the feeling coursing through him, but it compels him to shift forward, closer towards the wolf. "Follow... You?" He questions softly, as if the wolf can understand him. He's even more surprised when the wolf jerks his head back, as if he means to say _go that way._ And so he slowly rises up to his feet and takes a few steps forward. The white wolf eagerly goes along ahead of him, not back across the river, but down it, walking quickly down the bank, pausing only a few times to ensure that Reek was following after him. 

They walk along the river until they come to the edge of Winterfell's border with the forest. "Why here..." He murmurs aloud to the wolf, who has sat down on his hunches now, facing him with his back to the trees. "What's out there..." 

As soon as they arrive, Jon pulls himself from Ghost. 

He's been able to channel himself through his wolf for many years now; he's never been able to explain the ability, but it's always been there, since Ghost grew into adulthood. Slowly, Jon steps out from the trees, where he'd hidden himself away from any prying eyes. At once, the young man takes a single step back, as if he means to turn and run. "Wait, please," Jon calls out, hand reaching out, gesturing for him to remain where he was. "You live in Winterfell, do you not?" He's sent Ghost to the river every morning for a week now, waiting for the chance that someone, anyone, would come by. 

Reek blinks, but slowly, silently, he nods. 

"Please... Lady Sansa Stark... Is she...?" Jon dares not to speak his greatest fear aloud. 

"You know her?" Reek hears himself ask, surprised at how quickly he's found his voice again. "You know Lady Sansa?" He's never seen this man before and yet, he's seen him before, too. He reminds him of Lord Stark, why, now that he looks even closer, he reminds him of Arya. This was a Stark born man, if he's ever seen one before. "Who are you?" He asks, taking a step closer to this man, who's hair is tucked back but surely would be wild curls if let lose. His eyes are somber and gray, Stark eyes to match his Stark features. 

"My name is Jon Snow." The man replies and at once, Reek knows. This was the King Beyond the Wall, his name mentioned every now and again in conversations he's overheard in Ramsay's rooms. "Please, tell me, is she alright?" 

It feels like a lifetime passes before the man before him slowly shakes his head. 

His heart sinks. Jon has taken in the sight of this man, who walks with a slight limp, who reminds him more of a frightened dog than a man. This was a broken man, torn apart by something more than physical violence. "I want to help her," he says, slowly, softly. Jon dares not imagine what must be happening to her, wherever she was, and so he focuses instead on the man ahead of him. "Was it you who put the candle in the tower?" Ever since that night when he saw the candle ignite in the window, like a sign from the gods themselves, he's waited for this moment. This chance. 

Again, it is a long moment before the man makes a gesture, though this time he nods. 

"I want to help her. All you must do is tell me where she's kept." 

Something inside of him twists and then... Lets go. This was his chance to regain what was once his, this was his chance to set right all of the wrongs. He knows there's no forgiving his crimes, but this... This might be his one chance to do right by her. "In the east wing, in the room furthest from all of the others." He speaks for the first time and he sees this Jon Snow's face change; something warm spreads through him then, as if he knows everything is about to change for the better. As if he already knows what this Jon Snow plans to do. 

"Thank you," Jon reaches out to clasp the man's hand, but is yet again surprised when he jerks back, as if he thinks he intends to hit him instead. "Tell me your name." 

It's on the tip of his tongue, the name which Ramsay has given him, but then... Your name is Theon Greyjoy... Her voice breaks into his thoughts and he realizes right then, right there, that he has a choice. A chance. It was his to lay claim to now. "T-Theon," he finally answers. "Theon Greyjoy." He says in a stronger voice, a steady voice. "I want to help save Lady Sansa." Here at the river's edge, he would leave Reek behind and reclaim the name he thought would never again be his. 

This time, he does not shy away when Jon reaches out, clasping hands with his.

And thus, their pact was formed. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon declares war.

_In the light of the moon, she sees him._

_He stands at the gardens edge, surrounded by sweet smelling winter roses, the finest frost dusting their sapphire petals. ... Sansa... He whispers her name, soft and slow, and her heart skips a beat. She knew that he would come, she knew that of anyone in the world, it would be Jon to save her._

_But as her hands reach for his, he's changing, a haunting image of little more than skeletal remains. She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes, her terror trapped within her heart, within her soul._

And then, she wakes.

Fear makes her heart race, the cold sweat she drips in making her shudder. Rising up from the poor excuse of a bed she sleeps upon, she tugs on the old furs of Jon's she's managed to keep all this time, the only thing that might bring her any comfort now. Tugging it as close as she can, she tiptoes across the room so she might stand at the window, peering out into the darkness of night. A winter storm rages outside and she can't stop herself from pushing the window open, letting in a burst of icy cold air.

She braces herself against it, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath; it's so cold, it hurts to breathe it in, but for once, the pain is all of her own making. When she opens her eyes, it's because somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howls. For a moment she's struck by the sound, so very haunting, so very lonely. For a single instance, she thinks of him, she thinks of Jon, the wolf's howl a reminder of what she left behind. Of what she could have had. Though she knows it will not come, she half expects another wolf to answer the call. She wishes it were Lady. But there is only the howling of the wind that follows.

Just as she turns away, she catches sight of it, barely visible beyond the swirling winter winds. But there in the distance, in the highest window of the Broken Tower she can see the flicker of the candle. He had done it... Theon had done it... Tears fill her eyes and she lets out the breath she's been holding. She dare not wish for it... She dare not expect it...

But that candle was her only hope.

[ x x x ]

They plan swiftly, Jon and his comrades, to ensure the safe extraction of Sansa from within Winterfell. Though he wishes to storm through the gates that very day he meets Theon, he knows they must wait, must wait for the perfect moment to strike.

And somehow, it comes within days.

"Leaving?" Jon says, surprised, gray eyes meeting green. "With a storm approaching?"

Theon nods. It's the third time he's managed to sneak away from Winterfell and meet with Jon and his wildling men, preparing a plan to rescue Lady Sansa. "He's lived North all his life- storms don't frighten him." Theon goes on, hands clenching around the mug of ale he's been given. "He will be gone only one night, but she will remain behind..." Theon neglects to explain why the Lady is to remain behind. The truth was, Theon's given little insight to the horrors in which he and Sansa Stark have endured inside of Winterfell's walls, but he knows that if Jon were to know the truth, emotion would blind him and he would not be as useful in the coming fight. He'd seen Sansa that very morning and bore witness to the fresh bruising along her jaw- Ramsay typically did not strike her in the face, he needed her face to show every now and again after all. But, he must have lost himself in the moment that night and her ivory skin had been proof of that.

"Then we must strike while he's away," Jon says, interrupting Theon's thoughts. "He will leave tomorrow?"

"Yes, in the early morning." Ramsay was heading out to Wintertown on business, leaving behind Lord Karstark to watch over the castle. "I have to go," he says then, pushing back from the table he sits behind, knowing if he's gone much longer, he'll be noticed. Jon nods, he knows, he understands, despite having not be told much of the truth. "I'll prepare her," Theon says when he pauses at the tent flap, turning back to face the men still seated at the table. "Don't let her down."

At that moment, Jon rises up from his chair to cross the way, to stand before the man he's come to know. "I won't, I swear it." Theon smiles, faintly, and then is gone, disappearing out into the cold, winter morning.

Jon thinks of her, cold and alone, and knows that once he finds her, he'll never let her go again.

[ x x x ]

Quietly, he slips back inside Winterfell, falling in among the others, hoping he's not been missed. The morning meal is about to begin and so he heads into the main hall, where the lords and Ramsay have already gathered, settled into their respective places along the tables. As he makes his way towards his own place, to stand just behind Ramsay, he sees at once that the man's cold eyes have never once strayed from him. "Ah, Reek, there you are." Ramsay says as he falls into place with a quick bow, as is expected. "Where have you been?"

Theon gulps; he's not prepared for this, he's not readied a lie for this. "The st-stables, Master," he stutters, the familiar feeling of fear racing through him, finding the first lie that feels right. "Ensuring your horse is prepared for your journey tomorrow." Now that he's said it, it sounds like the truth. If Ramsay thinks anything of it, he certainly does not show it, and rather turns away to speak to Lord Karstark who sits just to his left.

For a moment, he can breathe easy.

[ x x x ]

That night, so late that the torches have nearly burnt out, he slips from his rooms, a bundle in hand.

Over the last three days, as Jon prepared his men to fight, he's prepared for her. In a sack, he's bundled fresh bread and smoked meat, from that days meal, as well as a small container of ale. From the one maid in the castle he could trust, old Agatha, he's gotten a clean, wool gown and a warm cloak.

Quietly, he makes his way through the dark corridors, deep into the depths of the castle, stopping only when he reaches her rooms. Without knocking, he opens the door and steps inside, noting both the darkness and the cold. She sleeps fitfully in the bed, the window across the room open, allowing for flurries of snow to blow inside through the gaps in the glass. He sets the bundle down upon her table, where he once would have sat her tray of food, and crosses the room to shut the window. The hearth is cold and dark, no kindling nor flint for him to strike to get it burning again. Theon lets out the breath he's been holding and turns back to face her there where she sleeps in the bed.

This would be the last night... And then she would be safe.

Then he's gone.

[ x x x ]

When she wakes, she finds not her usual tray of breakfast, but a bundle wrapped in a thick, gray cloak. Shock rushes through her as she unwraps the cloak and finds a black and gray woolen dress, far warmer than the torn, old gown she wears now. Beneath that, wrapped in thick paper, she finds food, the kind of food one might pack in preparation for a trip. She recalls a moment from childhood then, when her father was to ride to town, and her mother had packed with her own hands a bundle similar to this one. Despite it all, a smile tugs on her lips.

But then, the sound of the door, and she's nearly leaping from her skin in her haste to hide the bundle. However, there is no time, and the door swings open. To her great relief, it is not Ramsay that's coming through the door, but rather Theon, dressed in his usual rags, but a strange pep to his step she's not seen in all their time together there in Winterfell. He must see the fear upon her face, for he offers an apology as he closes the heavy door behind him. "He's gone." Theon reminds her and at once, he sees her relax, and she sags beneath the weight of that knowledge, sinking into the chair she stands beside.

"What is this?" She asks, gesturing towards the clothing and food that sits on the table between them.

"He's coming for you." Theon says without preamble, watching as the shock registers.

"W-who?" She hears herself whisper. "Who, Theon?" She does not dare believe it, she can't believe it, she mustn't.

"Jon Snow, the King Beyond the Wall." Theon answers, as if she's asked about the weather.

"But... But how..." She doesn't understand, how could Jon be here...? "No, it cannot be." She decides, shaking her head. "Jon can't be here."

"He is and he's coming for you. Tonight." Theon inches closer to where she sits and she tilts her head back, looking up at him. "He promised he will save you." He recalls the look upon Jon's face, each and every time they spoke of her, the truth of his feelings always written there upon his features. "He will come find you when it is safe. Put on the dress, the cloak, it will keep you warm when you leave."

"Theon..." She begins, but he's shaking his head, silencing her before she can say another word.

As he turns to go, he pauses in the doorway, knowing that this very well could be the last time he sees her. There's still one last thing he wants her to know, one final thing he needs to say aloud, just in case. "Lady Sansa..." She's looking up at him then, peering out at him from across the room with those big blue eyes. "I didn't kill your brothers."

The moment those words have fallen from his lips, she's leaping to her feet. "What?" She cries in a voice that does not sound like her own.

Disgust fills him up but he swallows against it, as he always does. "They were already gone by the time I came to Winterfell," he admits, softly, slowly, leaning back against the closed door. "I killed two boys in their place." He closes his eyes against the memories of what he's done, opening them only when he hears her approaching footsteps. Tears shine in her eyes, her lips quivering as she opens her mouth to speak.

"My brothers... They're alive?" Is all she can croak out, to which Theon nods. A feeling like no other rushes through her and suddenly, she's swaying, knees threatening to give way beneath her. It is Theon who steadies her, carefully leading her back to the chair which she had previously been occupying. "Bran... Rickon..." She's whispering their names, tears streaking her cheeks, her heart pounding within her chest.

"The King will help you find them. He's a good man." Theon says, softer still, his hand lingering a moment longer upon her arm. "He seems to care a great deal for you." This, despite it all, makes her aching heart flutter. "You can trust him."

She raises her blue eyes up to him then, so large and wide in her pale, bruised face; but for a single instance, this is the girl he knew from childhood. "I know," she whispers, every memory of theirs flooding through her mind. If only that day... If only in that very last moment, she had left with Jon... But the time for what if's were long past and instead, she focuses on the moment there with Theon. "You must come with us." She says then, reaching out to grasp his hand. 

To her surprise, Theon smiles, the same one she recalls from their days as children in these very same walls. "I cannot, my lady," he says with a single shake of his head. When Sansa opens her mouth to protest, he again shakes his head, speaking before she has the chance. "I must remain here, at Winterfell." They both know what will happen to him if he remains behind, that it will be he who faces Ramsay's wrath, but he will stand steadfast in the line of fire. There is no atonement he can offer in place of what he's done to her family, to Robb, to her, to those innocent farm boys... But perhaps, this lact act will see forgiveness for him in the eyes of the gods, enough so that after death, he will go on to find the light. "Stay here in your rooms until Jon comes." Theon steps back then, his hand slipping from hers. "It won't be long."

And then he's gone, leaving her there to wait.

[ x x x ]

When night falls, Jon and his men are at the ready.

Quietly, they approach from all sides, the stone walls high, but not too high; his wildling brothers scale the walls and drop over the sides, their presence undetected to the few guards left at their posts so late into the cold, winter night. Jon himself, along with Tormund, Edd, and Ghost, approach the front gate instead, where the guard dozes in his tower, unaware of the dozens of men already making their way through the courtyard. He's also quite unaware of the two men climbing his tower, where in a single, swift movement, he's grabbed from behind and a knife to his throat silences him long before he's given the chance to scream.

"Open the gate!" Comes the call a few moments later, the booming voice of the man, waking and alerting the various guards stationed around the courtyard. "The master has returned early!" He goes on, this single call enough to set the men on the ground into motion.

Sure enough, it takes only a few moments until they all hear the slow creak of the wooden gates as they begin to open. When they're pulled back, the two guards that stand there are not greeted with the sight of Ramsay Bolton returning from his trip, but rather a giant, white wolf leaping towards them. The men's screams echo, but by the time other men take up their arms, Jon and Tormund have pushed through, with Edd at their heels. Ghost makes quick work of the two guards and he's rushing on, taking up battle with another man who Jon knows is no match for his wolf.

"Find your lady, little crow!" Tormund's voice shouts across the courtyard, from where he's locked into battle with a trio of men, two of whom look petrified of the beast they face; Tormund is a man to fear, especially when it comes to battle. "We have this!" Jon has no worry that Tormund and his men have the courtyard under control, and though more men spill out of Winterfell's double doors, he nods and braces himself for his own fight.

With Longclaw tight in his hand, he rushes forwards, towards the doors, striking down three men as he goes. There is nothing on his mind but finding her and freeing her from this place, taking her away to where she can be safe. I'm coming, Sansa!

Upstairs in her rooms, Sansa watches from her window as the torches along the battlements light up, the signal for battle.

There comes shouts and it does not take long before she can hear the clang of metal as swords clash and the distinct screams of the men falling beneath those swords. She's dressed herself in the gown and cloak Theon brought for her, the bundle of food still laying on the table across the room. Jon's old furs are draped across the back of the nearest chair, the only other thing she means to bring along with her when he comes for her. But even so, despite what she hears below, she cannot help but to wonder if somehow, he still will not come for her. That like with everything else in this life, this night will only end in bitter disappointment.

Down below, blood makes the main hall of Winterfell slippery.

It's taken him and two others ten minutes or more to fight their way through the main hall and now, aside from the sounds of battle outside in the courtyard, the palace is eerily silent. He knows that those who remain able and willing to fight must be outside, which gives him his chance to begin his search for Sansa.

Giving a quick nod to his comrades, who he knows will remain close, to ensure both his safety and hers, and then rushes down the next corridor, uncertain as to where she might be. In the east wing, is what Theon had told him, and so he makes his way further down the hall and at the very end, a staircase. He rushes up the stairs and at the top landing, finds himself with a choice; left or right. Taking the right, as it leads further east, he continues on his way, meeting only a frightened young maid as he goes. Further on and he comes across another staircase, this one only a single flight, which he climbs and finds himself now in a dark, damp corridor that is far colder than any other hall he's been in.

This hall has five rooms all along both sides, leading to one final room at the very end, it's door facing him where he stands. Inside his chest, his heart twists, as if somehow, he already knows she waits for him down at the end of this hall. And so he goes, quickly at first, but slowing until he approaches that final door, knowing he would do little else but frighten her if he rushes in.

Jon finds his heart to be beating faster than it ever has and he must take a deep breath to calm himself, before finally, he reaches out to push open the door.

She turns from where she stands at the sound of the door opening; her heart beat intensifies, the cold but familiar tremor of fear rushing through her as it swings open. But it is not Ramsay that stands there, it's not even Theon. No... It's him... It's... "Jon..." His name sounds so sweet to say and she feels her knees quivering beneath her gown.

He really had come.

"Sansa." He speaks her name and it is the best sounding thing she thinks she's heard in all of her life. For a single instance, he cannot move his legs, cannot even open his mouth to speak. The sight of her standing there in the dark, with her long hair tumbling down and her pale face, he barely recognizes her. But then she speaks, soft and slow, the voice from his dreams, from his memories... It's her. Of course it's her.

She takes a single step forward and then... She's running.

She runs right into his arms and the moment they're around her, she feels safe. Such a feeling is foreign to her now- but she remembers it, she remembers it well. "I've got you," he's murmuring, breathing her in, his lips against the top of her head. He is thankful for the cover of darkness- to hide both his shock and his emotion over the state he's found her in. He pushes these thoughts from his mind and instead, holds her at arms length so he might look into her eyes. "We must go," he says, to which she nods, and he's thankful that Theon has prepared her for this moment. She's dressed in a shabby cloak and gown, both of which are far too large for her shrunken frame, but she will be warm enough for their journey further North. "Come," he takes her by the hand, to lead her from the room, and it's in this moment that she suddenly hesitates, swallowing against a lump that's suddenly formed within her throat, stepping further back into the darkened room.

It does not take Jon long to understand her fears and again, he's forced to push away a flicker of white hot rage at what she's so certainly endured here within Winterfell. "You don't have to be afraid," he whispers, coming closer to where she stands, slowly reaching out his hand. It pains him to see her flinch, as if she's been conditioned to believe the hand will cause her injury. "I'll protect you, I promise." He goes on and their eyes meet; for a single moment, there is true understanding. And so he slips his hand into place against the curve of her cheek, her ivory skin cold beneath his touch. "He will _never_ touch you again." Jon wonders if she knows that tears have filled her eyes, that they run down her cheeks. It's with his own thumb that he swipes them away, leaving her skin dry once again. "Come... There isn't much time." His hand takes hers again and this time, she allows him to lead her from the room.

But she stops him one last time, turning back to reach for furs that are draped over the back of the chair settled just before the cold hearth. His heart skips a beat when he realizes is, as she swings it around her shoulders, it's the very same ones he left behind in the Vale so long ago. Once again he finds himself swallowing against the rising tides of emotions within him, but he's calmed when it is she that slips her hand into his, so small and cold, but a sign that she is ready to face whatever comes next. Tomorrow there will be time enough to deal with the rest.

And so he draws her from the room and out into the hall.

Together they make their way back down the way Jon had come, down to the main floor where sure enough, his two comrades still yet remain. Outside, the sounds of battle have silenced and all that remains is the howl of the wind. "Tormund's just tying up some loose ends," one man says as he and Sansa approach, his wolfish grin appearing as he recalls what he last saw when looking outside the doors. "But Edd suspects sunrise is less than two hours away, we have to go if we don't want any dogs chasing us down." He gestures towards the other man and they head out the doors, with Jon and Sansa following after.

Outside in the swirling snow, Jon sees that those defending Winterfell that still yet live, are tied up and secured. "Bring the horses," Jon commands and when the great black stallion arrives, Jon turns to her. "Can you ride?" Though it has been a long time, Sansa nods. So Jon boosts her up onto the saddle and then climbs up after her. With her settled into place behind him, Jon urges the horse forward, and he leads his men back out through Winterfell's gate.

Only once, does she turn back to look behind her at the retreating peaks of Winterfell, already so far in the distance, but close enough that it sends a shiver down her spine. Something tells her that this is not the last she will see of her home, but until then, all she wants to do is put the memory of it behind her. And so she turns back to face front, leaning into Jon who sits just ahead of her in the saddle. He looks over his shoulder at her and smiles; that alone is enough to bring one of her own to her face. The realization of what safety feels like is warm and strong, almost overwhelming. Leaning in, she presses her cheek against him and closes her eyes.

And then... she sleeps.


End file.
